My curiosity killed the catPosted: May 15, 2012
Yes. Really. A mere 15 days after I collected her from the RSPCA, the beautiful grey cat – upon whose delicate shoulders rested the rebirth of D – was put to sleep. Her breathing was getting very unsettling, and she had a funny turn one night, so I took her to the vet for investigations. Turns out she had very advanced terminal lung disease.
I know. My curiosity didn’t kill her. But ignorance might have been bliss, since I had to make the decision to have her put to sleep.
I always thought you could call yourself a grown up when your tastebuds matured to embrace coffee, olives and red wine. Fuck that.
You’re a grown up when you have to instruct a vet to kill your pet. In code, because your son is there with you, because there’s no-one else to look after him.
“Yes. If you could keep her in for a long course of euthanasia, I think that’s the right thing to do, if you’re sure…” Fuck.
The last year or so has fucked with the way I react to things emotionally. Because I am very sad, and very angry, but kind of at a distance, and it all feels rather expected. Just another thing. Of course my cat died. She made me feel hopeful about the future, and calm. It’s obvious. She had to die.
And not just die die. We’ve done death – and of a parent at that. Can’t top that. Can add a sting though. This time, I got to be the instrument of death. Yes! A new flavour of shit.
I was obviously a murderous paedophilic politician in a previous life.
But I am not to be deterred. I’m getting kittens at the end of June.
THEY WILL NOT DIE.